


I've spent a lifetime running (and I always get away)

by Toomanytears



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe, Boats and Ships, Dublin (City), First Meetings, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Student Harry, Student Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toomanytears/pseuds/Toomanytears
Summary: The eruption of an Icelandic volcano (the name of which Louis decidedly cannot pronounce) really shouldn't be the catalyst for a relationship with a boy he's only just met.Or // the one where Louis and Harry share the back of a car, a cramped bed on a dingy, highly unsafe boat, and their adoration for art (and perhaps each other).





	I've spent a lifetime running (and I always get away)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for clicking on my fic! The title is from 'Writing's On The Wall' by Sam Smith. The location is meant to be Dublin, Ireland, but I think that Harry and Louis probably spend more time reaching that destination than actually enjoying the city. I'd like to thank the wonderful, patient mods who organised this exchange! I really appreciate all of your work. Without further ado: enjoy!

The morning of the twenty-fifth of May was bleak and overcast. Britain’s transport system seemed to actively despise Louis if the rate of traffic on the M1 and the indeterminate delay on all air travel due to the eruption of an Icelandic volcano—Öræfajökull—was anything to go by. Sat on his suitcase at the departure gate at Heathrow airport, defeated before his journey had already begun, Louis closed his eyes.

Today was the day Louis had anticipated and saved up for five tedious, tiresome months. After his first year of studying Language and Art at Manchester University he would finally be given the opportunity to travel around Europe and escape the banality of his life. Öræfajökull, unfortunately, had other plans.

There were at least one hundred other people in various states of impatience scattered around the departure gate; there was a young Irish couple attending to their wailing twins and apologising profusely to the people seated around them; a man with a scruffy beard was arguing with an entirely uninterested flight attendant and another man was reading updates on the volcanic eruption aloud from his phone to a small group of eager fellow passengers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a grating voice called over the loudspeaker. “Due to the unexpected repercussions of poor visibility and lack of general flight travel safety as a result of the volcanic eruption and ensuing plume, all flights have been cancelled.”

There was a collective (and rather satisfyingly unanimous) sigh. The elderly woman beside Louis threw her hands in the air in frustration and, in the process, dropped her walking stick on the floor with a loud clatter. Louis leaned forward and handed it to her. She pinched his cheek and patted it, muttering insouciantly. Louis stifled a laugh and hauled himself into a standing position. Though his back muscles were uncomfortably tight from spending the better part of two hours sitting on his suitcase, the pain was nothing compared to the horrible feeling of disappointment that seemed to weigh upon his shoulders.

 _Months_ he had spent planning his trip. Louis had researched the cities he had planned to visit, the routes he would take and seas he would cross. He had a small handbook with notes about the mesmerising sights and cathedrals and historic monuments he would see, train timetables and sticky-notes with reminders. The previous night he had emptied his (very creatively-named) ‘Travel Jar’, into which he had put all of his savings from tips at the restaurant to birthday money since before Christmas. And now, before he had even left England, he was deterred from pursuing the trip he had been dreaming about for so long.

A ringing sound indicated another loudspeaker message. “Unfortunately, refunds will not be distributed, but we can offer alternative options for passengers travelling to Belfast, Dublin and Paris.”

Louis perked up at this, listening intently. His first destination was Dublin—he planned to spend a week exploring the Irish culture, the magnificent historic features and natural landscapes. The west—where Irish was engrained in the culture—was where his favourite Language professor had encouraged him to visit, as well as the Burren, where he planned to complete part of his natural art assignment for the following term. Through immersing himself in the cultures and lifestyles (and convincing himself he had a lot more money than he actually did) Louis knew that he was ignoring his own life—the dull, monotonous and imagination-driven life in a tiny flat in Manchester—and that he was probably engaging in some unhealthy kind of escapism but he really couldn’t find the will to be concerned.

Everything in his own life felt horribly lonely and repetitive, full of endless shifts at the local restaurant, studying and convincing his landlord that he had lost his phone, hence the missed calls about his overdue rent. It only made sense, really, that Louis found himself imagining other lives he could lead; lives in chic cities and bustling towns, along exotic coasts and roaming highland. Every time he imagined such adventures, however, he was never alone. There was always a faceless man with him; someone trusting and spontaneous and so utterly enthralling that Louis couldn’t fathom ever leaving his side. There was no such person in his life, of course, but that never seemed to deter Louis from dreaming.

“All passengers for the now-cancelled flight A176 to Dublin, please make your way to Gate 891 for information on alternative means of travel available. We apologise in advance for this inconvenience and wish you safe future travels.”

Louis tugged his suitcase, secured his satchel across his chest and followed the jostling crowd towards Gate 891. Though short, the walk involved a quick trip across the tarmacadam which also meant being hit by the light, rather miserable drizzle and enduring the grating sounds of the disproportionate amount of grumbling from some of the passengers. Eventually, the entirety of the group and their considerable luggage gathered between two dingy rooms, some spilling out into the corridor. Louis squeezed beside a group of students in school uniforms—undoubtably visiting London on a school our—who were discussing the prospect of cancelled exams if they didn’t make it home to Dublin in time for the following day. Ahead of Louis was a taller man with a smart, rather elegant suit who obstructed his view of the flight attendant—who was struggling with the wires of the microphone—at the front of the room. Finally, it seemed, the flight attendant managed to untie the knots in the wire and coughed pointedly to hold their attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said, looking around at them wearily.

“And non-binary people,” Louis heard someone mutter under their breath. Louis glanced up, surprised but pleased by the very discrete interruption. He thought for a brief moment that it came from the suited man in front of him but, judging from his tall stature and antique suitcase, dismissed the idea. He certainly didn’t seem the type to concern himself with non-binary inclusion.

“Unfortunately, as you’re all aware, the Icelandic volcano which I’m not even going to try and pronounce has erupted, creating an [ash cloud](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eruption_column) that has led to the closure of most of the European [IFR](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Instrument_Flight_Rules) airspace for the foreseeable future. Consequently, a very high proportion of flights within, to, and from Europe have been cancelled. Obviously, this air travel disruption is an inconvenience but it is also unavoidable and so we are doing everything we can to allow our passengers to reach their destinations through any means necessary.”

Another man, older and carrying a hefty stack of paper, joined the flight attendant at the front of the room. “As all of you are going to Dublin, your travelling there seems to be feasible for the time being.”

Louis heard the group of students sigh.

“We will be able to facilitate your travel by bus and boat instead of by plane,” he said. “However, Stena Line and Irish Ferry services are currently inundated with passengers. We’re going to be able to bring the vast majority of you to Dublin on a normal ferryboat this afternoon. However, there are fifteen passengers which will have to take a couple of much smaller, overnight boats. Please be advised that the selection of these passengers was completely random and we will not be entertaining complaints.”

Louis pulled his lower lip into his mouth and waited as the second flight attendant listed booking times and alternative boat routes available, as well as local Bed & Breakfasts that were willing to provide accommodation at reduced prices.

“Now, would everyone please take out your boarding cards,” the flight attendant called, clearly frazzled. “We’ll be dividing you according to your mode of travel. Firstly, passengers seated from seat 6A to 36C will be taking the ferryboat this afternoon. Would every passenger in those seats please make their way now to the shuttle bus awaiting them outside.”

Commotion ensued. What seemed like a hundred people scurried to grab their belongings and shoved their way through the throngs of people to climb aboard the shuttle bus. Louis was pushed to the side and he stumbled, latching onto a railing against the wall to maintain his balance. He knew his seat number by heart: 4A. He also knew that this meant he wouldn’t be getting the shuttle bus and the sophisticated ferry across the Irish Sea. Instead, he’d be taking the ‘alternative’ overnight means of transport. Trying to remain positive but feeling very much like the mournful rain outside was a reflection of his own state of mind, Louis dragged his feet to the front of the room to where the flight attendants and the fourteen other passengers—the Not Very Fortuitus Fourteen, as he decided to call them—stood.

Among the group was the couple from the departure gate and their twins, who had finally drifted to sleep, swaddled in blankets. Beside them was a man wearing a bright yellow cardigan and reading from an upside-down bridal magazine. There was also a teenage girl with a thick Dublin accent arguing rather raucously on the phone, as well as a squat man who was leering at her. Reminded uncomfortably of his own sisters and instinctively feeling protective of the girl, Louis made a mental note to ensure that she didn’t need to sit next to him on whatever mode of transport they would be provided with.

Opposite Louis, leaning rather innocuously against the wall and allowing his eyes to roam the rest of the group was the tall man who had been standing in front of Louis earlier. Or, perhaps he wasn’t a quite a man as a boy his own age. The sharp suit and magnificently-styled hair as well as his admittedly attractive demeanour had made him seem much older but, on closer inspection, he couldn’t have been much older than Louis. Dark, tumbling curls framing pale skin and astute, green eyes, Louis had to discipline himself to look away. Thankfully, the flight attendant interrupted his staring (or, keen observation, as he would have described it) and divided them into two groups. Louis was placed with Lara, the teenage girl—thankfully the sleezy, squat man was assigned to the other group—as well as the young parents, Rory and Rosemary, and the gorgeous, suit-wearing boy, whose name was Harry.

Louis tested the name on his tongue. It was dreadfully common in England, but somehow attracted a regal quality when endowed with him. Harry wore an expression that Louis wouldn’t have minded looking at for longer still—toeing the line between unimpressed and indifferent, the expression was worryingly alluring. Louis caught his eye and tried to smile, though he was quite sure it came out more of a grimace. Instead of maintaining the apparently indefeasible expression, however, Harry looked rather amused for a moment. He watched Louis, careful and curious and utterly unbothered by the fact that Louis was aware that he was being watched. Feeling strangely unnerved and slightly warmer beneath his jumper, Louis returned his attention to the flight attendant.

“Since you’re the smallest group—seven, including two infants—you will be brought on your own personal bus to Fishguard and then on an overnight boat to Dublin port,” the flight attendant explained, consulting a clipboard. He glanced outside the window at the meagre drizzle. “Ah! This is it, I believe.”

Louis turned on his heel and spotted a battered minibus swerving outside the window, missing a lamppost by mere inches.

“Off you go, then,” the flight attendant said, looking rather delighted to see them leaving. No doubt he had been dealing with customer complaints all day.

Heaving his suitcase—which seemed to be getting progressively heavier as the day wore on and his patience wore thin—he followed Rosemary and Rory outside. The driver they were greeted with was middle-aged, with a bulging belly and an untamed beard.

“Fishguard, is it?” the driver asked. “I’m Mick, then.” He shook hands with each of them and gave the twins—one of whom was opening her eyes blearily—a short wave. Louis’ perception of him instantly changed. His mother always said that he could decipher a lot about a person through their interaction with children.

Mick and—at his insistence—Harry, lifted all of the luggage and the pram into the minibus. Louis surveyed the seating arrangement; there were seven seats in total. Mick in the front, Rory in the passenger’s seat, the twins sharing one seat between Rosemary and Lara, and the final two seats—one cramped and half the space of the other claimed by a briefcase—for Louis and Harry. Sighing, Louis crawled into the cramped seat as he figured that Harry would simply place his briefcase at his feet. Instead, Harry climbed into the seat beside him with a surprising lack of grace. Despite the nonchalant, composed demeanour, Harry was certainly clumsy. Tittering, but attempting very valiantly to stifle his laugh, Louis dodged as Harry manoeuvred his long limbs and collapsed into a tangle in the seat next to him.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, looking appropriately sheepish.

“Not at all,” Louis said.

Harry regarded him for a moment, angling his body towards Louis despite the significant lack of space. “We haven’t properly met,” he said suddenly. “I’m Harry.”

“Louis,” he said with a smile. He shook Harry’s proffered hand and noticed three things; Harry’s hands were rather large, his fingers slim and decorated with a variety of ornate rings, and his eyes were not nearly as intense nor as probing as Louis had initially thought, but wide and earnest.

“So, what’s the briefcase for?” Louis asked, indicating towards the antique, chestnut-coloured case with belt buckle straps.

“Just for my papers,” Harry said. “I was an art student. I needed something big enough to hold spare sketches and materials.” He dragged his finger along the ridge and fiddled with the lapel in a manner that was far too seductive to be appropriate. “I suppose I just liked the old style.”

Louis nodded. “I’m a student too. At Manchester University.”

Harry’s eyes lit up at this. “Really? That’s wicked. I studied there too.”

Smiling, Louis nodded towards his own rucksack embroidered with a ‘Manchester University’ badge. “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and, though the movement was almost imperceptive, Louis caught it.

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?”

“ _What_?” Louis said, suddenly feeling unhinged. How could a boy he had just met possibly infer his loneliness from a simple conversation?

Harry shifted back in his seat, though he couldn’t go very far. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I mean, you just don’t sound like you’re from Manchester and I thought… it’s fine.”

Louis felt his heartbeat return to its normal pace. Harry wasn’t psychic; he had merely noticed Louis’ accent. Louis shook his head instinctively. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. He paused before adding “Yeah, I’m from Yorkshire, not Manchester.”

Harry smiled, broad and beatific. “I thought so. Do you have a flat? I had student accommodation at M.U. It was appalling.”

Louis laughed, feeling Harry’s responding smile as well as his rather endearing rambling tug at his heart. This boy was certainly a liability by the very fact that he had managed to earn Louis’ genuine, unbridled interest. “My flat isn’t much, to be honest,” he admitted. “Lots of mysterious stains on the walls and cigarette burns in the couch. And the plumbing never works either.”

Harry hummed sympathetically. “Sounds a little too familiar.”

Louis tugged at the fray in his jeans, feeling outrageously underdressed seated beside Harry. “When did you graduate?”

“Last year,” Harry said, his eyes glimmering almost sentimentally. “Haven’t actually done all that much since then, though.”

“You said you studied art, right?”

Beaming, apparently at the fact that Louis had recalled this piece of knowledge, Harry nodded proudly. “Most of my work is watercolour based but I’ve done a lot of stage design too.”

“Oh! That’s cool,” Louis said, a story about his own stage endeavours on his tongue. Before he could divulge them, however, the minibus swerved in one swift, sharp and unprecedented movement.

Quite a few things happened at once—the Volvo in the lane beside them beeped incessantly, Mick swore loudly, the luggage surrounding them went tumbling and the twins announced that they were fully awake and very cranky by screaming crying—but the only thing Louis could focus on was avoiding ending up in Harry’s lap which, incidentally and despite the various distractions, was precisely what happened.

“Sorry,” Louis said, scrambling out of Harry’s clutches. Louis’s hand had certainly been pulled in an awkward direction if the uncomfortable stinging pain was anything to go by. He was also reasonably certain that he had managed to jab his elbow into Harry’s thigh during the course of the ordeal. Louis heaved himself up and, ignoring the flush of his cheeks, attempted to smooth out his clothes again with at least some of his dignity intact.

With a furtive glance to his right, however, Harry looked distinctly more embarrassed. Until, that is, his eyes landed on Louis’ hand and his face fell.

“Louis!” he exclaimed, holding Louis’ wrist in his hand. “Oh no! Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“What is it?” Louis insisted. The twins’ wailing was very much ruining the tone of what could have been a very romantic hand-holding instance.

“My belt,” Harry said. “I think the buckle must have cut your hand.”

Louis twisted his hand and found a very thin, but steadily bleeding, cut from the side of his wrist to the base of his little finger. He pursed his lips and shook his head, smiling reassuringly at Harry, who looked about as remorseful as if he’d just brutally murdered Louis’ pet hamster.

“Don’t worry about it, Harry,” he said, smiling and patting Harry’s shoulder gently.

This seemed to console Harry slightly, but he was only properly placated when Rosemary produced a bandage and cream, which Harry insisted on applying.

The drive to Fishguard took five hours, complete with a generous amount of Mick’s swearing, lullabies from Rosemary to soothe the twins to sleep and the ABBA’s Greatest Hits CD on repeat. It was rather cosy in the back of the minibus, Louis and Harry pressed almost side-by-side, cocooned by suitcases and spare blankets and sharing a flask of steaming hot, sweet tea that Mick passed around.

During that time, Louis learned very little about Harry from talking to him—he was deceptively private and seemed to reveal very little initially, though he began to open up by the end of the journey—but he learned an awful lot from watching him. Expressive, highly animated when he was talking about anything he was passionate, and extraordinarily intuitive, Harry displayed a profound ability to read people. More than once, Louis found himself worried that he had revealed too much about himself to Harry—he was essentially a stranger, after all—but Harry possessed a rather envious ability to draw anyone out of their shell without leaving them feeling self-conscious.

By the time they arrived at Fishguard, the sun had long set and the murky sky told of turbulent waters between the two islands. They clambered out of the minibus and Louis was instantly hit by the fresh, sea breeze. The low floodlights caught the ripples and movements of the waves in the dock, and Louis surveyed the area to try to spot their “alternative boat”.

The double-tier yacht was by no means unimpressive, but Louis was certain that their living quarters aboard it would be cramped and uncomfortable. Most of the outdoor floorspace was occupied by equipment, and the downstairs didn’t look considerably more spacious. Gathering the optimism he could muster (and snatching a few of the blankets from the back of the minivan), Louis marched ahead of the group towards Harry.

“What do you think?” Louis asked.

Harry grinned, a mischievous, promising, slightly concerning grin. “Looks like fun.”

 

*

 

There were three things that Louis could say for certain that he despised: cramped spaces, sweating and motion-sickness. The boat unfortunately included all three.

“Everyone feeling alright? We’re just ten minutes into the journey yet, folks!” Anthony—the captain of their boat—called. He had spent the better part of those first ten minutes instructing precisely what procedures to follow during an emergency. Louis didn’t feel very confident that he would be able to remember anything Anthony had told them because Harry had spent the entirely to his explanation slipping and sliding across the deck and causing Louis to panic more than once. He was fairly convinced that Harry would fall off the—admittedly low—railing around the boat.

“Alright, folks! Ready to see your quarters?”

“Is that where we’ll be sleeping?” Lara asked.

Anthony nodded and a splitting smile crossed his face. “Right this way.”

Feeling particularly unoptimistic, Louis followed Anthony and the rest of the group downstairs to the bottom tier of the boat. There were three rooms, each marked with a name: Captain’s Quarters, Fisherman’s Hut and Deck n’ Dock Dive.

“The Deck n’ Dock Dive is the biggest, actually,” Anthony said. “So why don’t Rosemary and Rory and the twins take that room?”

Rosemary smiled gratefully and, an infant in each arm, both with their heads resting on her chest, disappeared into that room, Rory struggling with the pram in her wake.

Anthony scrutinised Harry, Louis and Lara carefully. “You two are travelling together?” he asked, pointing between Louis and Harry.

“Oh, no,” Louis said, suddenly realising how closely he had chosen to stand next to Harry. “Er, we just met a few hours ago.”

Anthony nodded. “Well, even still, I think it’s only fair that Lara get’s a room to herself, especially if that makes her more comfortable.”

Lara smiled. “Thanks. I know that Mum will sleep better knowing that I have my own room.”

Anthony nodded and helped her lift her luggage into the Fisherman’s Hut.

Louis felt Harry’s gaze linger. He suddenly became very interested in the deteriorating state of his nails.

“Er, do you want to go in?” Harry asked, pointing rather awkwardly towards the door where the wooden, faded ‘Captain’s Quarters’ sign hung.

“Sure,” Louis said, feeling an unwelcome flush rise in his cheeks. He was uncomfortably reminded of an awkward one night stand he had suffered through a few months before.

The Captain’s Quarters, it transpired, was surprisingly welcoming. The interior was rather like a cabin; warm, with a chestnut and honey-toned wooden bedframe and lockers, as well as a pile of cotton blankets. It would have been ideal for one person venturing on a retreat to a wooden cottage in a blistery snowy area of Canada. Unfortunately, there were two of them and they were on a precarious voyage in abominable weather in the middle of the Irish Sea.

“Er, well,” Louis said, looking around blankly, as though he expected another bed to suddenly appear. “I’ll take the floor. There are enough blankets to make a bed just here,” he muttered, gesturing towards the thin strip of space between the door and the bed.

Harry shook his head instantly. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to sleep on the floor. This bed is enormous,” he insisted. “We can go head to foot or something.”

Louis grimaced. “I think I’d rather take my chances on the floor than waking up to find your stinking feet caressing my beautiful face, thanks.”

Harry laughed, loud and raucous. “Well, even still, the bed is so big that it shouldn’t be awkward,” he said. In an instant, his blithe expression fell and he looked concerned. Cornering Louis and putting a gently hand on his shoulder, Harry caught his gaze. “Unless sharing makes you uncomfortable. Because I don’t mind taking the floor at all.”

Louis smiled, unbridled. Pushing past the voice in his head that warned of impending anxiety, Louis covered the hand on his shoulder with his own. The rings dug into his palm slightly, but his skin felt smooth and comforting.

“Don’t worry,” he said on a breath. “We can share, I suppose.” He narrowed his eyes in feigned intimidation. “Just keep to your side of the bed, Styles.”

Harry grinned, but his eyes didn’t meet Louis’; instead, they were trained on their overlapped hands. In an instant, they both realised the extended length of their skin contact and stumbled out of their reverie.

Harry coughed loudly. “Er, I’ll take the bathroom first and get dressed and everything.”

“Sure,” Louis said, allowing his gaze to roam anywhere except Harry. He heaved himself onto the bed, wincing at the tightness of his muscles. Watching Harry’s retreating back and the tentative click of the door shutting, Louis sighed and dropped his head to the pillow.

 

*

 

Harry returned to their shared bedroom not fifteen minutes later, wearing what were possibly the ugliest pair of pyjama trousers Louis had ever had the burden of laying eyes on. Silk-woven, with purple and yellow hydrangeas scattered down the trouser leg and along the drawstring waistband, the thin fabric left precisely nothing to the imagination. Harry had also deigned to go shirtless. While Louis couldn’t blame him—their cabin was stiflingly hot, after all—Louis knew better than to remove his shirt while sharing a bed with a relative stranger. Granted, this wouldn’t be the first time he had shared a bed with a stranger, but this time he was sober.

“Er, the bathroom is free now,” Harry said, ambling over to his suitcase. He began shifting his belongings around and stuffing his now-creased suit into the suitcase.

“Thanks,” Louis said, selecting his least embarrassing pair of pyjamas. “What’s with the suit, anyway? I can’t imagine it’s that comfortable to travel in.”

“Comfort wasn’t really the aim,” Harry said with a wry smile. “I was supposed to meet the director of the Irish National Art Gallery this evening and kind of wanted to look the part.”

Louis piqued an eyebrow. “The part?”

“I was selected to have my work showcased and sold in an exhibition. It’s meant to take place tomorrow morning and I was supposed to meet the director to prepare for everything tonight but…” Harry trailed off, averting Louis’ gaze. His nonchalance was endearing but not very convincing.

“That must have been a disappointment,” Louis said. “Stuck on a cramped boat in the middle of the Irish Sea instead of opening your exhibition.”

Harry shook his head. “A little, but it could have been a lot worse.”

A moment of silence weaved through their conversation.

“Do you have any photos of your art?”

Harry perked up at this, almost banging his head on the low-hanging beam of wood. “Yes! I mean, yeah. I do.” He scrambled to find his phone and held it in two hands, scrolling rapidly.

Feeling slightly intrusive but equally as curious, Louis made his way over to Harry and took his proffered phone. Each photograph—of which there were at least forty, excluding the numerous sketches, primarily in pencil and charcoal—entranced Louis. The first aspect of Harry’s art that struck Louis was its whimsical disposition; the second was the vivid colours; the third was the erotic undertones of each painting. Touch seemed to be a prominent theme among Harry’s work; hands intertwined, legs tangled beneath bedsheets, hands caressing faces, lips barely brushing.

“It’s… magnificent,” Louis said on a breath. He almost gasped as he scrolled past some sculptures of stretching bodies with bulging muscles, marvelling at their sheer magnitude.

“Thanks,” Harry said rather modestly. “It takes time but the reward after everything—especially with tomorrow’s exhibition—should be worth it.”

“It will, I’m sure of it,” Louis said.

 

*

 

Half and hour later, Louis found himself highly conscious of his breathing; did Harry find it too loud or erratic? Was that the reason for Harry’s apparently endless tossing and turning? The other boy had spent the better part of ten minutes trying to find a comfortable position, which made Louis highly aware of his own perfectly still state, wrapped in blankets and futilely trying to settle his racing heart.

“Do you have a muse?” Louis asked suddenly.

Harry’s movements stilled. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Louis shook his head despite the fact that Harry certainly couldn’t see him in the almost pitch darkness. “Doesn’t matter.”

A hand fell on Louis shoulder, the pressure light but imploring. “No, please. Tell me.”

Louis sighed, cursing himself for even raising the topic. “Your paintings and sculptures all seem to depict the same kind of men—tall and muscular and moody.”

Harry snorted. “They’re contemplative, Louis, not _moody_.”

Louis smiled. “Anyway, I just thought that, since they all looked the same, that you had a muse of some kind.”

Harry sighed. “My mum thought the same thing, actually. She accused me of having a ‘type’,” he said, laughing. “It’s actually that I was commissioned to create a collection of very similar looking pieces to fit into a theme I specialised in at M.U.: Masculine Portrayal and its Downfall. I wanted to have broody, expressionless men with muscle and dominant stances and auras of power in order to subvert notions about them. Despite their outward appearance, they’re all either in compromising positions or touching people and being free and intimate.”

Louis let a shaky breath escape his lips. “I want to see the paintings. Properly,” he announced before he could stop himself.

The entire bed creaked, as though Harry had heaved himself closer to Louis and, in the process had managed to shift the mattress.

“Really?” Harry asked, his voice surprisingly breathless.

“Yeah, of course. I mean… if you’ll have me.”

“Yes, I’d love to have you there. A friendly face, you know? Most of the people there will be snooty buyers, anyway, and I don’t much fancy having to small-talk my way through the entire night.”

“Okay,” Louis said, finding an unexpected (and unalterable) smile cross his face. he pressed his cheek into his pillow to try and suppress it in case Harry looked over at him, developed night vision and managed to catch a glimpse of his embarrassingly maniac smile.

 

*

 

The dawn of morning, after a turbulent night of sleep, was punctuated by the sound of a foghorn. Louis had awoken three hours previously but had been too worried bout disturbing Harry to get out of bed yet. Instead, Louis allowed himself to consider his plan for that same day, accompanied by the sounds of Harry’s snores. Each time Harry rolled against his side or thrust an arm out, threatening to smother Louis like a beached whale (or worse, wrap his arm _around_ Louis) he quickly shifted over to a the side of his bed. By the time the foghorn blared, Louis was perched precariously with half of his body dangling over the side of his bed. It seemed that Harry was an affectionate sleeper, and that Louis had vastly underestimated the sheer length of Harry’s limbs, which had poked and prodded Louis during the night.

“You awake?” a rough, guttural voice asked.

Louis almost jumped with the sound, which sliced thorough the otherwise silent air. “Er, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat pointedly. “Should be arriving soon.”

Harry hummed.

They lay in companionable silence for another few moments, each consumed in their own thoughts (or, at least, Louis was; Harry may have fallen asleep again).

“Ten minutes, folks!” Anthony’s jovial voice called, ringing through the downstairs area of the boat. After this announcement, a flurry of activity ensued. Sharing one bathroom proved to be rather a challenge but Louis managed to use the toilet, brush his teeth and scrub the dirt from his face in time. He pulled on a pair of black jeans and, considering the predictably drizzle and overcast sky in Ireland, pulled on his favourite white hoodie, with the Rolling Stones tongue logo emblazoned on the front. It had been a birthday present to himself when he saw the band perform the previous summer.

“Wicked,” Harry said as soon as Louis came back to their shared room. “I’d love to see them live. Had exams last summer when they were playing here. I managed to convince myself that I couldn’t stay away from my work for even a couple of hours to see the greatest band alive.”

“The paint fumes must have got to your head,” Louis said with a grin. “They were brilliant.”

“Everyone ready?” Anthony called. “We’re about to dock, folks, so start making your way back up to the top deck as quick as you can!”

They all scrambled up the stairs, Louis carrying his own suitcase as well as the twins’ pram. Harry somehow managed to carry both his own enormous suitcase and three of Lana’s bags.

The sight Louis was greeted with was magnificent. Perhaps it was that he had been cramped in the downstairs area of the boat and inside various buildings and vehicles the entirely of the previous day, but smelling the sea breeze and seeing the glistening water was a relief.

Louis glanced over his shoulder to find Harry beaming at him. He felt a blush rise to his cheeks and tried to quell the incessant, fluttering feeling in his stomach.

"Ready to go?" Harry asked.

Louis nodded, securing his suitcase and took Harry's proffered hand without a second to consider the significance. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos make my heart burst with happiness!


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